


Two-Way Street

by LunaChai



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: F/M, Slow Burn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-16
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:08:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23687428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaChai/pseuds/LunaChai
Summary: A veiled woman surfaces at the Leicester Masquerade. Claude thinks he knows her; she died five years ago.
Relationships: My Unit | Byleth/Claude von Riegan
Comments: 85
Kudos: 344





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i love claudeleth. i love masquerades. the solution was obvious.

The last time Claude danced, he accidentally stepped on his professor's shoes.

Truthfully, he shouldn't have been dancing at all. Marianne was the one receiving lessons; Marianne was their representative for the White Heron Cup. But when the entire Golden Deer house barged into practice to cheer for her, everything spiraled into chaos, and soon enough, the professor was giving _everyone_ lessons, and they were all taking a turn about the courtyard, waltzing and singing like ridiculous fools.

When Claude's turn came, he stepped on the professor's shoes three times. He apologized five times.

 _It's not that I'm clumsy, Teach,_ he said with a blithe smile. _I'm just not—_

And he promptly stopped short, because _not used to the dancing of Fódlan_ would've begged too many questions.

He'll never forget the way the professor dropped his hands, looked him dead in the eye, and said, her every word crisp and clear:

_Not used to the dancing of Fódlan?_

At the time, his mouth ran dry. He was so shaken that he couldn't work up a response—or even a vague smile. The only thought that pulsed in his mind was _how does she know, how does she know, how does she know,_ over and over again until it drowned out his footsteps on the dewy grass.

He didn't ask her about it, and she never brought it up again.

Now, five years later, Claude von Riegan looks out into the splendor of the Leicester courtyard, where gold-rimmed lanterns are strung from tower to tower and banquet dishes are carefully laid over rows of ornate tables. It's been years since he could host a proper celebration; the war with the Empire nearly destroyed the Alliance from the inside-out, fracturing them into factions and dissolving them with infighting. But now, there's a reason to celebrate: the Alliance is patched back together, albeit at a heavy price.

This celebration is different from that distant day five years ago. There's no raucous laughter, no silly faces, no haphazard pranks. Everything is carefully refined to perfection, strategically planned so the Alliance nobles will forget their squabbles and unite under one banner. A ball for bonds, a masquerade for masters.

Claude's mouth lifts wryly. Nowadays, even his parties have schemes.

He lets his gaze wander past Hilda, who manages to naturally sport a bold and brash flamingo mask, and Lorenz, who bears the feathery visage of a purple starling. Something catches his eye through the sea of nobles: a woman dancing on the far edge of the courtyard.

Unlike the other comely guests, who've donned masks resembling animals like birds and mammals, this woman has chosen a shocking mask of bone that settles over her nose and around her eyes. A sewn-in veil sheathes the lower half of her face, and a velvet hood covers her hair. She's completely obscured.

Claude frowns and lowers his drink to the nearest table.

Something about her strikes him as odd, and it's not just her clothes—though her clothes are unique indeed. Exquisitely dark in the color of the night sky, with gold rimming the hem in baroque patterns, her dress reflects the Goddess's own. She borders on Fódlan blasphemy.

Claude finds himself walking closer, brushing past nobles and stepping around tables.

She pivots on one foot, achingly graceful.

He's drawn in by her movements like he's caught in a current.

The woman notices his presence as he approaches. She slows, curbing her dance to a light sway of the hips, and curtsies.

"Good evening, my lord," she says mildly.

Claude bears a stag mask, but it's a formality more than anything; everyone knows his identity from the honey-gold cape bracing his shoulder.

"Good evening," he says. He smiles without meaning. "Care for a dance?"

"I would be honored."

Her voice has a soothing lull to it, but hearing it churns a tight ball of emotion in the pit of Claude's stomach. He almost frowns as he takes her hand.

They start in the standard fashion: a bow, a curtsy, an inoffensive and indifferent sweep around the feet. Claude swallows away his nerves; it's been too long since he's formally danced, and unlike the other nobles, he didn't have the luxury of being brought up in the culture.

"Are you enjoying the festivities?" he asks, turning her around.

"They're quite impressive." The woman steps out, then in. "I wasn't aware you danced."

An odd statement. A calculating one, maybe accusatory. With no balls in five years, there's hardly been reason to dance.

"Well, everyone can change," Claude says lightly—defensively. "I guess that I'm no different."

"Yes," says the woman, soft with a hint of texture, like honeyed almonds. "You've grown well."

Claude frowns lightly, filing the words in the back of his mind.

"Grown well into your role," the woman adds—almost hastily, except the lilt in her voice is undisturbed. "Rumors always abound around the surprise heir of the Leicester Alliance."

Claude steps to the swell of the music, turning the words in his mind.

What she said was quite true: when the war began, his legitimacy was a controversial issue among the nobles. Many wanted proof. More wanted bribes. All of them ignored the threat of the Imperial army knocking on their doorstep, choosing to focus on padding their own coffers or expanding their own territory.

There were many nights where Claude screamed in frustration to the stars, screamed for the aristocracy's blindness and their petty games, screamed because his professor was somewhere in the constellations and nowhere on the ground where she could guide him. He had to fumble through politicking without a north star, relying on nothing but distant dreams to show him the way.

"Rumors of me abound, you say?" Claude says smoothly, pivoting. "All good things, I hope."

The woman is in lockstep with him, perfectly matched. "I have to disappoint. Very few are good."

He laughs, mostly out of bewilderment. He's never met a noble so blunt.

"Ouch," he says lightly. "Then what's the word on the street? That I'm too devilishly handsome for my own good?"

The woman quiets. Her veil sways as he turns her gently. He waits for a word, but she says nothing.

Did he intimidate her?

"Your secret is safe with me," he says. He keeps his tone teasing, yet coaxing; he throws in a wink for good measure. "Can't blame a guy for being curious of his own reputation, can you?"

She swirls her skirts as the violins jump, then takes his hand again. When her fingers meet his, Claude realizes it: her hand feels achingly, unusually familiar, but he can't place it.

She breathes in, then speaks.

"They call you the Coin," she says softly. "A man with two faces who can change at the flick of a finger."

Claude's smile remains on his face, practiced and hardened. It masks the chill in his veins.

"I see," he says. "I wasn't aware."

"I find that hard to believe."

"Do I seem that knowledgable?"

"You seem that resourceful."

She steps close for one tantalizing moment, and he smells ocean spray; with a pang, he's reminded of Almyran ships, and it almost makes him choke up.

Claude locks his jaw. This woman is taking him apart, striking at every weak point he's tried to shield over the years: his legitimacy, his dreams, his origins. She's besetting him with a multi-pronged attack, whether she's aware of it or not.

Whether it's through guile or coincidence, her tactics end here.

"Apparently, I'm not as resourceful as you," he says blithely. "A mercenary who managed to filch Lady Kestrel's invitation and sneak her way into the ball? You have my respect."

That catches her off guard; he can pick out the minute stumble as she follows his pivot.

 _How do you know,_ is the unspoken question.

Claude's mouth broadens. "Your target selection was unfortunate. Lady Kestrel is quite a rabble-rouser, and her absence is sorely marked. Maybe I wouldn't have noticed if you picked someone more forgettable."

She sweeps around him, but her motions are tighter, more angular. She's losing her form.

Claude nods at her feet. "I know a lifelong warrior when I see one. The grace of a socialite and the grace of a swordmaster is painfully distinct. And if you had to steal an invitation, then you're not part of an upper guild or a noble house; you're a commoner. Since you're skilled enough to infiltrate the ball, but arrived without any accomplices to protect you, I can only assume that you're a consummate professional: a lifelong mercenary."

Around them, the music tapers to a close. She halts before him for a curtsy. He bows in return.

"Clever," she breathes.

Claude freezes. _Clever._ He's heard that word before, in that exact same tone of voice, somewhere else, some _when_ else, when was it—

The woman steps in. Her mask of bone shimmers under the lanterns, and the veil wafts with her movement.

Claude blinks, and for one moment, he swears that he can see a sword at her hip. He's seen that step before—a swift step to close distance, as elegant and efficient as the wind.

"Thank you for the dance, Lord Riegan," she says, her voice lilting. "Now that I've been discovered, I'll be on my way. Perhaps refrain from calling the guards on me. I wouldn't want to disrupt the festivities."

He's so distracted that he misses the veiled threat. Familiar. She's so familiar, yet he can't place her. She's out of place. Why is she—

Then the woman turns.

Her step is just a touch too swift; the motion flutters a fragment of her veil, swaying over the cleft of her ear and a flash of—

—pale green hair.

Claude's gut bottoms out. Before she can slip into the crowd, he seizes her arm, unthinking. Something rattles deep in his brain, like a stone key finally locking into place.

The grace, the wit, the sync of their steps.

_No._

_You were dead._

_You_ are _dead._

"By—" He swallows the syllable. It takes immense effort. His pulse is rioting in his chest, swelling in his throat until it's nearly impossible to speak.

The woman stills, waiting. She is deathly impassive beneath her mask of bone.

Claude fights to recover his even, blasé tone, strangling away that bit of wild hope rising in him—because it couldn't be, it _couldn't be._

"By the way," he says loosely, easing his grip on her wrist, "I never caught your name."

She tilts her head. The veil sways teasingly. "It's not proper to exchange names at a masquerade."

He throws in a test. "Are you one for propriety?"

"Shouldn't the leader of the Alliance be?"

Lightning-quick retorts, no hesitation. _Strike one._ His lips quirk upward.

When he was a student, they had this exact rapport—back and forth, snappy, playful with a hint of bite and a pinch of doubt. He liked to stir the pot and prod her, seeking a reaction. She never gave.

 _What're you up to, Teach?_ he would say, swaying into the library past midnight. And she'd reply: _The same as you, apparently._ When he'd try to get a rise out of her with, _Careful with that cabinet, you can get in trouble for those forbidden books if_ someone _reported you,_ she'd only respond: _How do you know where the forbidden books are?_

Every day was a test, a game. She tested his schemes and his likelihood of betrayal. He tested her suspicious background and her competency as a strategist. But right as he was about to take an honest plunge—to trust her entirely—she was snapped away by the yawning abyss.

The woman is watching him carefully from beneath her veil. He realizes he's been silent for a long time, too long. His faint smile must appear suspicious.

He releases her arm, letting his mouth widen into something warm, almost cajoling.

"Well, you've heard the rumors," he says jauntily. "You must know I don't always play by the rules. Propriety included."

"Yet here you stand, the leader of them all," the woman says. Her tone is strange to his ears: is that suspicion? "You must have sacrificed much."

"No more than anyone else," he says evasively.

He clasps his gloved hands together so they won't shake. Why does it sound like she's chiding him? Why does it seem like she knows the deals he's had to cut, the injustices to which he's had to blind himself, the hands he's had to shake in the shadows?

Why does it feel like she knows what he's done?

 _Strike two,_ he thinks haltingly. His professor of five years ago had always been able to see right through him.

The woman's head tilts slightly. Her veil shifts—not enough, not nearly enough. "You're an intriguing man, Lord Riegan, humoring a humble mercenary."

"Is that what you are?" He tries to sound blasé. Instead, his throat catches.

"My lot since birth."

Claude strikes. He steps in close, his arm winding around her waist and just barely brushing against the small of her back. He's surprised—but satisfied—to feel a small, latent shiver up her spine.

"What if we changed that?" he murmurs.

The woman is silent for a moment. The glare of her mask is harsh under the light—too harsh for him to see her eyes. Her fingers flutter at her hip, as if seeking the comfort of a blade.

She steps away, sliding out of his hold like water.

"You flatter me exceedingly with your attentions," she says blandly. "Surely the public would be disappointed to learn that your tastes are so... common."

He smiles. "Maybe I'm striving for a world without barriers like status."

"A kind sentiment, but naive."

His smile widens. "If I fail, I was naive. But if I succeed, I was a visionary."

She falters at that. He clocks how her shoulders stiffen and how her fingers flutter again, just for a moment.

_Strike three._

Five years ago, his professor told him those exact words. He was discouraged, slumped against the ramparts of a watchtower late at night, haunted by the the carnage of Remire Village from that morning. So much needed to change, and there he was, too powerless to help a single village.

 _Naive, Teach,_ he said with a despairing laugh. _I'm so damn naive. Why did I ever think I could change anything?_

They didn't know each other well, not at all—but in that moment of vulnerability, she met him. She slid a hand on his shoulder and said, quiet and pragmatic, but with that firm thread of faith and certainty that nothing could take away:

_You're only naive if you fail. If you succeed, you're a visionary._

He clung to those words as he unified the Alliance. More than she'll ever know. Maybe more than he should have.

"I," says the woman, hastily reaching up to adjust her mask of bone, "I should get going. No use in lingering now that I've been found out, wouldn't you say?"

Claude says nothing as she ducks into a hasty curtsy. He lets her flee, watching as she pushes past nobles and darts under the entrance wreath.

The moment she's out of sight, he pulls out of the courtyard and ducks into a cellar.

He slides next to the second wine barrel and kneels down, hands searching the wooden flooring. He finds what he's looking for: the iron of a trapdoor handle. One pull later, and he's dropped into a pitch-black underground passage.

He knows this palace like the back of his hand: every secret, every weak point... and everywhere it could possibly lead.

Claude grips his stag mask and drops it, letting it crack at the impact. He strides through the darkness of the passage, heaves open a rusty door—

—and swings out into the middle of an abandoned corridor, catching the woman as she passes by him.

He pivots, shoving her weight against the wall and pinning her down—one hand firmly at her hip, the other at her collarbone. She inhales sharply as she's driven against the stone.

She's deathly close; as he pins her in with his weight, he can feel the heat rolling off her skin and smell the ocean spray feathering over his nose. His face is only an inch away from the ridge of her mask.

It's a dangerous distance, but Claude only leans closer.

"I know who you are," he says, low and trembling. His hand lies on her hip. He feels the grooves of a knife concealed in her robes, and his gut pounds. "No more games."

For a long, painful second, she says nothing. Then—

"No more games," she agrees softly.

Claude's hand presses tighter. Two of his fingers rest on the curve of her skin, healthy and whole, the warmth burning into him like a brand. The other three fingers pressure her knife so it'll be a slow draw, slower than his.

He works through the words on his clumsy tongue: "Are you here to kill me?"

She watches him silently. In the dimness of the corridor, he can finally make out the shade of her eyes behind the mask: pale silver touched with hues of green. The familiar color winds him.

"Would you believe what I tell you?" she says.

"Yes." Gods, yes. He's almost choking. "Yes, I would. The truth. I need..."

"I'm not here to kill you." He doesn't relax. "I came to see if I'd have to."

"Reconnaissance?" he says lightly, even while her every word punches deeper into his gut.

"I had to see for myself." She quiets. "I don't recognize Edelgard anymore."

There's layers behind that statement, too many for him to unpack. Had she visited the Empire first, had she considered joining Edelgard, had she tried to assassinate the empress? Had she turned her gaze from the Alliance and ignored them all this time?

"Oh, so is that what you've been up to these past five years?" Claude says lightly.

His thumb presses harder on the hilt of her dagger, digging the metal uncomfortably into her flesh. She doesn't flinch.

"No," she says evenly. "I was sleeping."

Claude stops. His eyes narrow.

The veil still sheaths her mouth, but there's no sign of a smile in her gaze.

"Sleeping," he echoes.

Slowly, he draws off a glove and raises his bare hand in the dim light, letting silver reflect off of his skin.

Pale, weblike scars wind down his palm to his wrist.

He hears a quiet inhale.

"I got these five years ago," he says roughly. "From moving rubble. Turns out that even wreckage can still cut deep. I almost lost my hands because I was too reckless. Some priests told me I'd never draw a bow again."

A shiver behind those green eyes. "Claude."

"See, when the Imperial army finished ransacking the monastery and moved on, I snuck back in. Pulled up everything I could: cobblestone, brick, shrapnel and wood. One side of the building even collapsed—almost crushed me beneath a metal bar. But I had to keep going, had to keep searching, because if there was even a _one percent chance_ that you'd be alive, then I had to take it."

"Claude—"

"We searched. Everywhere." He lifts his gaze and stares right at her, hoping that the storm of heat in his gut is burning through. "For you, Byleth. For weeks. And we mourned. We wore black, we burned a pyre, we had a ceremony. So, no need for the life story, but you tell me straight—you owe us that much. What the hell were you doing these past five years?"

She meets his gaze, unmoving. Her chest rises and falls as she breathes, shallow and controlled, like she's gearing up for battle.

Then she reaches up and unlatches her mask.

White bone clatters to the floor atop a dusty veil.

And Byleth Eisner looks up at Claude von Riegan.

Claude isn't prepared for the sucker punch to his gut. The vibrancy of her eyes, the afterglow of her pale hair, the porcelain swell of her cheek—she looks like she's walked straight out of his nightmares, completely untouched by Time. Seeing her exactly how he remembered stirs up a lingering emotion that he's long shelved in the back of his head.

Byleth is alive.

Claude swallows, his throat suddenly dry. His heart is pounding hard somewhere in his collarbone.

All he can feel is the grooves of the knife at her hip.

Byleth's gaze searches his face. She doesn't seem to find any answers; he's gotten too good at hiding them over the years.

"I'm not lying," she says emphatically. "I was unconscious for five years. Something kept me in stasis—luck, my altered body, the blessing of the Goddess, take your pick. Even I don't know what it was."

She's always had so much determination and resolve in her voice.

Claude's always been weak to it.

"Is that so," he says. His words aren't smooth anymore; they're clipped, ragged. "Lucky you. Lucky Edelgard."

Her eyes flash. "What?"

"So, you were asleep for five years. And then you woke, and then you headed right for Adrestia." Claude laughs without merriment. "Let me guess; you visited Faerghus, too. And the Alliance was the last on your list and the last on your mind—"

"When you go out for the day," Byleth says heatedly, "the last place you return to is _home._ "

He stops short and cold. Behind her, the moon swells silver.

"I woke just a few weeks ago," Byleth says flatly. "To me, only a few hours had passed. To the world, it was five years. Of course I had to get my bearings. And of course the last place I hit will be the place I stay."

 _Stay._ His scarred hand shudders.

She tilts her head up. Her eyes are fiery in the moonlight, and they blaze away his fog. "I came prepared to fight you, yes. Like you're prepared to fight me right now. But I always hoped that it wouldn't be that way, and that you'd still be the Claude I knew. Was I wrong?"

Silence falls. Claude hears the cicadas sing their lullaby.

He reaches out and takes her hand. Her skin is warm on his, velvety on the grooves of his scars. His pulse thrums unevenly in his throat.

"You were wrong, Teach," he says softly. "I'm not the person you once knew."

He crumples the glove and presses it into her hand, then closes her fingers over it.

"None of us are."

Claude turns and sweeps out of the corridor, ushering himself back into the light of the courtyard.

He doesn't look back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> haha what if they reunited... with a lot of doubt? just kidding! unless...?
> 
> My [Twitter](https://twitter.com/lunachaili)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> well OOPS I love this dynamic a lot more than i thought i would, so i guess it's a multi-chapter slow burn now LOL;;

_Claude is suffocating._

_He's ten feet below the monastery, hands scrabbling in the darkness, fingers tearing against rough stone as he wrenches out any rubble he can find. His eyes scour the tortured earth for anything: a lock of pale hair, a scrap of coat, even a fragment of a limb._

_Frantic. He's frantic to find something, but what?_

_Claude catches an especially vicious cut on his wrist and hisses through his teeth, settling back on his heels. He stares up at the moon, bright and full, bleeding through the ruins of the open ceiling. He presses an arm to his eyes, dabbing off sweat._

_He needs to find it. Needs it now._

_"C'mon," he mumbles, returning to his toil. His bleeding fingers claw into the ground. "C'mon, c'mon."_

_At last, his hands find reprieve: his raw skin brushes against something soft._

_Claude hunches over and peers down. Spotless green-and-white winks up at him through the crevices, their pale colors aglow in the moonlight._

_Flowers._

_Frowning, he reaches down and threads his fingers through the verdant stems. Their soft, cool weave eases the burn on his palms for one precious moment._

_Flowers. What are flowers doing underground? How did they grow?_

_Claude leans against the wall, then jerks up. Strange. What was once stone is now smooth wood, a rich, flat mahogany panel that rises to the sky. In fact, the walls have changed shape, angling up the incline almost like—_

_—a coffin._

_Claude breathes sharply, his hands tearing away from the flowers._

_He's sitting in, digging in,_ trapped in _a coffin._

_He throttles to his feet, his breathing shallow. The ground beneath him shudders with a low, splitting groan, and above him, the scant moonlight begins to close._

_He swears under his breath and clambers to the wall, but his limbs are numb and shaking. He can't manage a good hold; his hands only slide from the walls, smearing wood with his blood._

_With one fateful twist of his footing, he falls down, down, and a pile of bonemeal soars up to meet him—_

.

.

.

—Claude wakes with a gasping start, knuckles white and tangled in sweat-ridden sheets. He turns over the edge of the bed and braces himself, biting his tongue to stave off the rolling nausea.

He gags, but nothing comes up.

Claude breathes—four seconds in, four seconds out—then shakily pulls himself up.

The first rays of dawn are barely starting to peek through his curtains. There's no hustle and bustle in the streets at this hour; Derdriu is near-silent, its morning serenity barely broken by the creak of a single shopcart. He's woken early.

Claude's just stripped his nightshirt and shrugged on a loose vest when a knock sounds at the door, light and tinny.

"My lord?" says an uncertain voice. "Are you awake?"

Claude bites back a smile. He ties the laces on his collar and throws open his door.

"Am now," he says, coming face-to-face with one of his personal guards, Sir Alm. "What's the latest?"

Sir Alm Soren Hodgins IX—though his friends call him 'Nines'—was once the illustrious gatekeeper of Garreg Mach. During the fall of the monastery, he ushered the Golden Deer in a safe retreat to the Leicester Alliance. As thanks—and, if he's honest with himself, out of mild affection—Claude offered him a job at the palace.

He was never much of a gatekeeper, but he's honest, hardworking, and positive, and in this political landscape, Claude will take as much of that as he can get.

Nines brightens at seeing his face, and snaps into a quick salute. "Greetings, my lord!" he says smartly. "A shady individual left you this note, insisting that it be delivered at first light. I ran it to Lady Ordelia, and she didn't sense anything dangerous from its contents, but even so—"

"No worries, Nines," Claude says. "I've been expecting this."

Nines frowns. "You have?"

Claude takes the note without further explanation and thumbs it open. The paper is crisp and plain, with only two sentences neatly etched in black ink. It's a street address to a homey traveler's inn: _The Feisty Wyvern._

Nines peers over his shoulder gives a low whistle. "Off to have some fun, my lord?"

Claude tears the note and scatters its scraps into the low-burning hearth. "More like a business proposal," he says with an automatic smile. "Tell Hilda that I'll be out."

He carefully selects a few articles of clothing, then sweeps out of the room, tying on a muted cloak.

.

.

.

Claude crouches in an alley across The Feisty Wyvern, dressed down to loose robes of cream and yellow. He's tied a scarf through his hair to avoid recognition, but it won't service any close perusal.

It's alright. He doesn't plan on lingering.

His eyes rest on the door to the homely, patchwork inn, established on the outskirts of Derdriu. The sun is fully in the sky, the second bell hailing citizens to work. He sees travelers dipping in and out of the inn's worn door, tossing a coin, a raucous greeting, or, on occasion, a well-seasoned expletive.

He can walk inside.

He _can,_ but whether he _should—_ that's a different matter entirely.

Claude's fingers thread into his sleeves, and slowly, he thinks back—thinks back one day prior, to the night of the Leicester Masquerade.

.

.

.

_The moment Claude returns to the courtyard, he strides through the crowd like an arrow. He weaves past nobles and servants alike, his steps deft and filled with purpose._

_He pulls up at the refreshments table, where a woman draped in glimmering finery and scarlet silks is leisurely drinking from a goblet._

_"Anna," he greets. "Just the woman I was looking for."_

_Anna turns her head, wine-red hair swaying about her oval face. He clocks her expression: mildly flushed, but not concerningly so. She's not even inebriated._

_Good._

_"Why, evening, Lord Riegan," Anna says joyfully, raising her goblet. "Want a toast? What can I do you for?"_

_Claude glances at the grandfather clock carved into the courtyard's far tower. Three minutes. He has to get moving._

_"I've got a job for you," he says. He tries to sound effortless, but he knows his words are rushing._

_"C'mon, Lord Riegan," Anna says with a light whine. "This is supposed to be my day off."_

_Claude reaches into the folds of his cloak and withdraws a single gold coin. He spins it deftly through his fingers, back and forth, back and forth, keeping the motions smooth and hypnotic._

_"A time and a half for overtime, is it?" he says lightly._

_Anna watches the coin as it glimmers and threads through his hand. She bites her lip._

_"Well," she wheedles, "maybe I can be persuaded."_

_Claude flips the coin with a snap of his thumb. Anna catches it deftly, looking suspiciously alert for a woman who's supposedly drunk._

_"I need you track someone," he says. "Just left the ball. She'll have her veil back on—Goddess's colors, navy with gold trim. Roughly your height, thin, with a curvy figure. Moves like a swordsman."_

_Anna grins. "Lord Riegan's got a crush, has he?"_

_"You know me better than that." She doesn't, of course; no one does. "Will you do it?"_

_Anna sticks out her hand and clears her throat._

_Claude checks the clock—six minutes, already elapsed. He hurriedly reaches into the folds of his robes and withdraws a thin drawstring bag filled with gold. He liberally sprinkles the coins into her extended palm._

_"There," he says. "Send me the address by first l—"_

_"Oh, I think you can do better than that," Anna says with a glint in her eye._

_Claude stops short. He studies her carefully, wondering if he can bargain down her shrewd demands. There's a hardness around her mouth that won't budge; he knows it well. There will be no give to this deal. She knows how desperate he is, no matter how well he hides it; he wouldn't call her on an off day if it weren't so._

_Claude dusts another handful of gold coins into her palm. She snaps her fingers around them and slides them into her pocket._

_"Pleasure doing business," she says smugly._

_He raises a brow. "It's not business until you fulfill your end of the deal," he says—light, yet warning._

_Anna only laughs._

_"Come now," she says. "If you didn't know that I could do this, you wouldn't have paid me."_

.

.

.

"You could always knock."

Claude whips around, broken out of his thoughts, and nearly slams his head into a beam. An uncharacteristic heat rises to his cheeks.

Byleth Eisner is standing behind him, leaning loose and ready against the alley wall. She's shrouded in a traveler's cloak, and her hand rests lightly on the pommel of a slim silver sword.

It's jarring to see her in broad daylight. On the night of the masquerade, surrounded by ethereal lights and vibrant dancers, Claude could've chalked up her appearance as a fever dream, but here—she looks solid, present, real. The sun cuts across her figure, blazingly bright, and he can see every thread in the weave of her clothes.

"Were you ever planning on going inside," she says dryly, "or are you just admiring the decor?"

Claude fumbles for a response. "Just taking a morning stroll."

She crooks a brow. "You don't seem to be doing much strolling."

That steals the words from his tongue. He stares at her, speechless.

Byleth shifts her weight until she's standing evenly. He sees her fingers glide from her sword to the knife at her waist—ready for a quick draw at a moment's notice.

"You're armed," she notes.

Claude lifts a fragment of his cloak to reveal his own knife. "I am," he accedes. "With a spectacularly fine dagger, too."

"But you bring no guards." She doesn't move her hand. "Isn't it dangerous for the Grand Duke to walk around unprotected?"

He smiles. He intends for it to be amused, but it comes out a little twisted at the edges.

"What makes you think I'm unprotected?" he says.

He sees the change immediately: Byleth's stance drops an inch, ready on the balls of her feet, and her gaze darts up the alley to the windows, searching for archers. Shame wells up somewhere in his gut, but he doesn't take back his words.

He can't admit that he's alone. Not until he knows her intentions. The Grand Duke of the Alliance can't be killed so easily.

"Teach," Claude says. It sounds mocking; he amends it. "Byleth. Like every person who comes to the Alliance, you're more than welcome to stay here, so long as you'll bring no harm to others. State the nature of your busine—"

"I just checked out." She nods at the inn, but her gaze is fixed on his. "Didn't want to overstay my welcome."

Claude stops dead in his tracks. There's too many words cluttering his mind, too much he wants to say.

_Don't leave._

_Where are you going?_

_Who are you meeting?_

_What are you planning?_

_Don't leave._

He inhales as Claude von Riegan. He exhales as the Grand Duke of the Alliance.

"Well," he says softly, "safe travels."

He's unprepared for the pain that shatters behind her eyes. If she's an actor, she's a damn good one.

Of course, if there's one thing that he learned five years ago, it was to never underestimate Teach.

Byleth turns wordlessly, the hem of her cloak fluttering in the wind. Claude feels a sudden swell of panic—it can't end like this, she can't disappear like this—and blurts out the first thing that comes to mind.

"Are you," he begins, but stops short. His throat clogs. He tries again. "Are you going to reveal yourself to the others?"

Byleth is silent for a long moment, the back of her cloak lifting in the alley's updraft.

Then, quietly:

"I don't know if I could take it."

She turns into the alley. Claude darts after her, drawing his knife as he skids the corner—in case of a surprise attack—only to find an empty dead end.

He stands there, breathing quietly for a moment, then sheaths his knife and returns to the palace.

.

.

.

It's nearly midnight, and Claude is still stooped over his desk.

Two long, tedious council meetings had taken up the majority of his afternoon and evening, leaving little time for the urgent skirmish reports and councilmen propositions that are piled miles high on his desk. He feels like he hasn't slept in weeks.

Claude feels his lids dropping and sucks in a breath, lighting another candle. He concentrates better in the dimness of his study, but he needs to stay _awake._

Just as he's about to return to the books, his ears pick up faint footsteps from down the hall. Uneasiness tingles somewhere in his fingers, and he listens closer, frowning.

Perfectly weighted: not Hilda.

Medium stride: not Lysithea.

Softened by leather: not Lorenz, not Nines, and not any of his other guards.

The footsteps stop in front of his door. He hears a quiet knock against wood—sharp and efficient, three taps exactly.

Claude takes up the mini crossbow leaning against his desk, loads it, and primes it at the door. He breathes along the shaft, stilling his hands.

"Come in," he says.

The door pushes in with a mild _creak._ Hallway light bleeds slowly into the room, revealing a cloaked figure standing in the doorway, shadowed and unrecognizable.

Claude frowns, his finger loosening on the trigger. Any experienced assassin—and it takes an experienced assassin to get through three floors of security—knows better than to stand in front of an opening door. Weapons are sure to be primed at head level, and guards may be waiting just around the corner, out of vision. Standing at the door is the position of a sitting duck.

This figure, apparently, wants him to know that they mean no harm.

"Can I come inside?" the stranger says wryly, and Claude's pulse stops at their voice.

He lowers his crossbow and swallows the sudden lump in his throat, nodding. "Be my guest," he says.

Byleth Eisner walks inside and closes the door behind her.

Claude unlatches his crossbow and rests it back against his desk, but his eyes remain singularly focused on Byleth. She sweeps further into the room, cloak fluttering about her knees, and throws back her hood. Even in the dim candlelight, her pale hair faintly glows like an ethereal wisp.

"Nine assassination attempts," Claude says. "Pardon a guy for getting antsy." He glances at her sidelong. "Unless this'll be the tenth."

"No. It'd be the first success," Byleth tosses back.

Claude's mouth twitches up, genuine. She always did have a dry, morbid sense of wit. It probably came from the mercenary cartel.

He liked that about her. Still does, common sense be damned.

"So, Teach." He settles back in his chair and links his fingers behind his head—open, vulnerable, strategic. "What brings you here at this hour? I thought you were leaving."

Byleth is quiet for a moment, studying him with her gaze. Her face betrays no emotion. She's just as enigmatic as he is.

"I wanted to ask a question," she says presently.

"Just questions?" Claude unlinks his fingers. "Or is it answers that you seek?"

"Why did you go to that inn today?"

The sudden directness of her query stops his tongue. Claude stares at her, his mind terrifying blank.

Byleth's gaze is mesmerizing, touched by dim candlelight.

He knows what she's really asking: _Why did you come to me today?_

There's a pain like a knife in Claude's throat. He can't swallow.

 _Honesty,_ said Anna to him once, _is not the best policy. Honesty is the most dangerous policy: all risk for all reward. Are you a gambler, Lord Riegan?_

"I don't know," he says softly.

Byleth exhales; he hears the air rush from her mouth. She steps closer—to the windowsill.

 _She can signal enemies from that window,_ Claude's mind whispers.

He doesn't move to draw the curtains.

"I was going to leave," Byleth says. Her tone is stable, but he can pick out some raggedness around her consonants. "Without any trouble, any fuss."

Claude bites his tongue. Iron coats his teeth.

"I know," he admits.

Which is why he went to intercept her, to _stop her._

Byleth steps closer—to the side of his desk, just an arm's length away.

 _She can stab you,_ Claude's mind whispers.

This time, he stands and slides one step away. The distance provides just enough time to draw the knife at his own hip, should he need it.

Something flickers over Byleth's face, but she clamps it down before he can place it.

"You're sending me some very conflicting messages, Lord Riegan," she says, a harder edge to her words. "Are we friend, or are we foe?"

Claude hesitates.

_Are you a gambler, Lord Riegan?_

"I wish I knew," he says quietly.

Byleth's breath hitches, and he can hear the pain in it. She steps hauntingly close. Her pale skin glows in the sheen of the candlelight.

 _She can stab you,_ Claude's mind whispers.

He doesn't move.

Byleth reaches out. His gaze instinctively darts to her fingers, checking for a retractable blade in her brace, a coating of venom on her nails, a brand in her palm—

She lays her hand on his face.

Her skin is warm, chapped from well-worn calluses of a mercenary. Her thumb brushes his cheekbone and skates over his eyelid, and a lulling, dreamy heat washes over Claude's face.

He exhales, pressing his cheek into her hand.

"I know you don't trust me," Byleth says softly. "Do you think you could, given enough time?"

Honesty is the most dangerous policy.

 _Are you a gambler, Lord Riegan?_ Anna had asked him.

Claude had leaned in with a wry smile. _I'm all in._

And now, Claude leans in, reaching up to wrap his fingers around Byleth's hand. The fabric of his new gloves presses into her pulse point. There's no heartbeat, as usual.

"I'd like to trust you," he murmurs. His grip tightens. "I want to trust you."

Byleth's gaze softens. The green in her eyes becomes the sea.

"That's all I needed to hear," she says.

She steps away. He releases her hand. The warmth still tingles on his face, settling somewhere near his mouth.

"Take care, Claude," Byleth says, throwing her hood back up. She turns whip-smart. "Don't let a tenth attempt be the first success."

She's gone in a flourish of cloak. The door clicks shut behind her.

Claude sinks into his chair. His eyes stare unseeing at the mountain of papers on his desk.

He breathes out, extinguishes his candles with the tip of his fingers, and calls it a night.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE this story still exists haha //sweats nervously

"Ow," says Claude, walking face-first into a very metal, very solid pole.

The hold on his arm flinches a little. "Sorry," comes the voice of Hilda Valentine Goneril, brimming with barely-repressed amusement.

"You don't sound all that sorry."

"That's because you can't see me groveling for forgiveness."

From under the velvet dark of his blindfold, Claude sighs and rubs his sore nose. The day is clear and sunny, boasting a light breeze—exemplary weather for flying. Which he would much rather be doing than stumbling through the corridors of House Riegan, running into metal poles and breaking his nose.

Still, Hilda's grip on his arm tightens, and she pulls at him with mounting urgency.

"Come _on,_ Claude," she says, her voice buoyant with glee. "We're almost there."

As he continues onward with hesitant steps, Claude reaches out to trail his fingers along a wall of stone, counting the distance between the grooves of mortar. Each cobble is sizable and unwieldy: they're not indoors, where the walls are lined with orderly brick-like slats, but approaching the courtyards.

Hilda suddenly grinds to a halt, and Claude runs into her, his chin hitting the back of her head.

"I'm blind, you know," he complains lightly.

The hand on his arm releases. Claude is left to flail for a handhold, but finds none.

"Surprise!" Hilda squeals.

And without ceremony, she rips his blindfold away.

Blinding light lances into Claude's eyes.

He squints and throws up a hand, groaning. "Gods, Hilda, some _warning_ next time?" he complains. When she's unresponsive, he rubs at his sore eyeballs until his vision clears.

What stands before him seems like a mirage.

The first thing that jumps out is all the colors: luscious purple, forest green, piercing orange, flaxen gold. He's bombarded with the vibrant hues that blend together into a chromatic, harmonic mess, each painting rainbow stars before his eyes.

Then those colors solidify, and they become people.

Lorenz's brows are taut now, drawn with both dignity and the weight of command. Ignatz is taller, his shoulders filled out and his cheeks slimmed into a somber, gentle look. Leonie's fierce ambition has tamed into the deeper, caring compassion of a sister, an aunt, a surrogate mother. Lysithea, Marianne, Raphael, they're all more harrowed yet more serene, grown in their own way.

His deer are all gathered here, in Derdriu. And in the center, as the axis of this wheel of color—

Byleth Eisner stands, swathed in black and silver, mirror-green settling on her shoulders and glowing faintly in the sun. She stands there like she was made for it: as a commander, as a teacher, as a beacon, as a dear friend.

She meets his gaze uncertainly, her pale eyes flickering.

_So. She revealed herself._

"It's your _beloved_ professor, Claude!" Hilda is _beaming._ "Back from the dead, just like you wished!"

Claude chokes on something painful that wells up in his throat. It's all so _familiar,_ standing here amidst his motley crew of daring deer, looking to Byleth like their north star in the dead of night, ready to ride out against the world or save it. For one quick, overwhelming moment, he's deluded into thinking he's just a student again, the shrewd house leader with big dreams, a penchant for trouble, and a dangerous crush on the freshest faculty.

Hilda had to know _exactly_ what she was invoking by inviting everyone here.

She had to know _exactly_ what she was doing to him.

_Damn it, Hilda._

Then Claude realizes that he hasn't said a word; he's only been staring dumbly at Byleth, mouth slack and eyes unblinking. The Golden Deer are watching him with barely tethered excitement. Leonie is grinning under a fist, Ignatz is clasping his hands with a smuggled smile, even Marianne can't stop beaming—

That's right. He should be happy.

They did this for him, thinking of him, expecting that he'd be knocked off his feet.

He should be happy. For their sake.

So Claude grins broadly, ear-to-ear in a polished smile, and grips Byleth's hand in a firm shake.

"About time, Teach," he says. "Overslept, much?"

The words come out smoothly, too smoothly; he's too used to lying. He wishes they were harder to say.

Byleth's gaze flashes in alarm, but she masterfully keeps the rest of her face stoic. She shakes his hand back. She's trying to make it seem friendly; it feels impersonal.

"Good to be back," she says, which makes him wince.

Claude counts exactly three seconds before he drops her hand.

Hilda's eyes dart between them for a second. Then she groans.

"Claude, you are just _so_ not fun," she whines. "Is that seriously it?"

"It's a reaction most befitting of a noble," Lorenz says with a sniff. "One cannot toss all pride and dignity to the four winds simply because the professor has returned. I acted in much the same way."

"Oh, come on, you basically dissolved into tears and threw yourself at the professor," Leonie snorts.

Lorenz balks. "I did _nothing_ of the sort, Pinelli, and I would beg you not to devolve to slander."

"We all cried a bit, didn't we?" Ignatz says, laughing. "There's nothing shameful about tears."

"Stuff this," Raphael booms. "We gotta celebrate! Time to serve up a buffet!"

And then they're chatting up a storm, planning a big celebration, morale roused and raring to go. All of them are so _happy_ that the professor has returned.

All except one.

Lysithea von Ordelia stands at the edge of the group, watching Byleth with silent, blush-pink eyes, lips thin as she clasps a tome with pale hands.

There's no joy on her face. Only uncertainty.

Claude tilts his head and files this snippet in the back of his mind.

.

.

.

As it so happens, Claude doesn't have to approach Lysithea.

She corners him later in the Riegan library—which just so happens to be stashing more blasphemous titles than one could shake a stick at. He's casually flipping through _Of the Seventeen Creation Myths and Their Origins_ when his petite, sharp-tongued advisor slips through the door, clearing her throat meaningfully.

Claude peeks over the edge of his book. There's a tome larger than her head shoved under her arm—a familiar sight, really.

"Lady Ordelia," he greets with a grin. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

Lysithea slips into the chair across from him. "Claude," she says slowly, her small fingers whitening on her tome, "I'm about to say something, and I want you to listen to it until the end."

"Uh oh," Claude says.

A flash of that girlish irritation that he likes to tease out of her. "I'm _serious,_ Claude."

He chuckles loosely and kicks back in the nearest chair. "Alright, alright. Hit me with it."

Lysithea falters for a moment. Her eyes dart nervously to the door, and her teeth catch on her lip. She sits there for a solid minute—very unlike Lysithea von Ordelia, who is always prioritizing _time_ and _efficiency._

Finally, she sucks in a deep breath, straightens, and looks him right in the eye.

"I don't think you should trust Professor Byleth."

She quickly holds up a hand like she needs to stop his interruption.

"Now, I know that you want to," she says. "I know how much she means to you. She was that for _all_ of us. But this... It just isn't right. Surfacing conveniently after five years? Completely unchanged, sound of mind, and still on the Alliance's side? It sounds too good to be true, because _it is._ "

She opens the tome, and he sees that she's shoved some hurriedly scrawled notes between its covers.

"Falling from that height, breaking nothing, being in a miraculous stasis for five years, and waking just as the war crests, just as you patch the Alliance back together—how can we accept that kind of story when a much more obvious one exists, right in plain sight?"

"Ly."

"Now, I know what you're thinking: what other explanation could there be for her falling from such a height unscathed? Well, clearly, she had accomplices on winged steeds assist her."

"Lysi—"

"And I know what you're thinking now: _But that happened in the middle of Imperial forces, which is why we couldn't reach her._ Yes, Claude, yes it did. But there was someone else who we bonded with, ate meals with, and grew with for the better part of an action-packed year, before she turned her back on us and declared total war on the nation, wasn't there? And what nation was she from? The one that's busy with embroiling itself in civil war, or the one that's actually threatened by the Alliance's reunification, and motivated to send an agent to displace you?"

Lysithea finally stops to gasp in a lungful of air, completely out of breath. Crystal-pink eyes flicker up to Claude, clocking his reaction.

She falters.

"You don't trust the professor either," she says softly.

Claude grins ruefully and turns to the window. There's no joy in it.

"With such a story," he says, "she doesn't make it easy to."

A momentary silence falls over the corridor as Lysithea gathers herself, stunned. She brushes at her skirt and clears her throat, tome forgotten.

"Well." She coughs. "Um, well then."

Claude chuckles, a little bitter yet a little warm. "Thanks, Ly. Good to know you have my back."

Lysithea stares mutely at her tome. Clearly, she didn't expect the conversation to go this way. She must have expected a steeper battle to convince him.

Claude clasps his hands behind his back, eyes unseeing as they fall on a bustling Derdriu. "So, what's your official opinion?" he says lightly.

Lysithea frowns. "Official opinion?"

"You're my advisor. You're supposed to have one of those."

"As if you ever listen."

He shrugs. "Guilty as charged."

Lysithea is halfway through rolling her eyes before she catches herself. Rolling eyes is _immature,_ for _children._

"My mind says that she could be an agent of the Empire sent here to trap you." She looks at him, and her gaze is piercing. "Even if she wasn't aware of your feelings, it's impossible that Edelgard _wouldn't_ have noticed."

Claude's mouth twists wryly. "And your heart?"

Lysithea's eyes fall on her tome. She bites her lip. "My heart says that five years is a long time, Claude. A very long time. She's not the person you once knew. And none of us ever knew her that well."

That strikes him in the chest, deeper than he wants to admit. Claude bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood. "So either way, your advice is the same."

Lysithea hesitates, then nods. "Stay away from her."

"And if she keeps approaching me?"

Silence descends, cold and weary, like nightfall in the rain. When Lysithea lifts her eyes, he can see that they're heavy and bright with unshed tears. Her face is pinched in and somber, but her mouth is set.

"Then defend yourself," she says quietly. "No matter the cost."

.

.

.

Byleth is whisked away by the deer on a whirlwind tour—through Derdriu, into every eatery possible, within and without the barracks and the training grounds and all the other combat institutions. They're eager to catch her up on five years' worth of stories and improvements, and she seems no less eager to hear them. In this bleak time, a smile and an encouraging word from her are like injections of sunlight.

Claude drops in whenever he can with a glib smile and a golden line. Keep everything smooth, keep the river flowing, keep his deer unknowing. It's not too hard; most days, he's inundated with meetings from dusk 'til dawn.

Byleth doesn't approach him. There's no questions or accusations, no emotional outbursts demanding his trust. Nor are there shady movements in the dark, any attempts on his life. She seems to be waiting for the right moment, biding her time.

Claude wonders if this will just be the new norm between them. Silence, distance, doubt.

Well, really, he's the only one to blame for it all.

.

.

.

It's two weeks since Byleth has returned, and Claude has a headache.

He's stooped over his desk again as the sun falls outside his window, painting his study in blood-orange. Meetings, meetings, meetings, then stamp a stack of decrees that Lysithea has proofed for him. The life of a Grand Duke isn't nearly as glamorous as his citizens might think.

He's halfway through the stack of decrees when the door to his study clicks open, and Byleth slides gracefully into the room.

Her movement is flawless as ever, like a falcon cutting through the sky. Balanced perfectly on one hand is a tray, neatly arranged with a selection of delectable dishes.

Claude swallows at the sudden nervousness that spikes somewhere in his gut. He leans back—a relaxed pose.

"Teach," he says easily.

Byleth shuts the door behind her with the careful tilt of a boot. Claude's pulse trembles. He ignores it.

"Claude," Byleth greets. Her eyes scan his desk. "Ah. Fun."

He grins. "Paperwork, the greatest joy in life."

"Then you must be a blessed man."

"Very much so." Claude's grin widens. "What brings you here on such a fine evening?"

Byleth pauses, the green in her eyes fiery. When she looks like that, she looks so similar to the woman he knew five years prior that his heart aches.

"You haven't been eating," she says—matter-of-fact, yet slightly accusing.

Claude tilts a brow. "I eat plenty."

"When you have the time." She sets the tray on his desk with a hard look. "I haven't seen any food touch your lips since this morning. You've been scurrying from meeting to meeting like a madman."

He sighs, dropping his quill in surrender. "I know."

It's not a great habit—especially when he has to keep his skills sharp, just in case the need for him to ride out on the frontlines surfaces. He just never feels like he has any damn _time._

Byleth jabs her thumb at the tray. "So eat," she says, crisp and no-nonsense.

Claude folds his fingers together, cataloguing the tray's items in quick succession.

Fresh fruit—sweet and tart, strong tastes able to mask any artificial chemicals.

Chicken stew—thick and rich, bulky enough to hide any dangerous additions.

Millet and wild rice with sautéed vegetables—neutral and faded colors, capable of blending with deadly powders.

Chance of poison: high.

Claude pulls the tray closer, his gaze searing over the decorated goblet of water and provided set of silverware. He rotates the plate of wild rice to catch the dying sunlight, studying the matte finish.

"How does it feel to be the talk of the town?" Claude says casually, pulling out the top drawer of his desk.

Byleth relaxes a little, maybe because she can see that he's making a move to eat. She leans against his window and stares out into the blazing sunset.

"Talk of the town?" she repeats.

Claude withdraws three utensils from his drawer: his own personal silverware, carefully locked and maintained. He surreptitiously slides away the silverware provided on the tray. "Everyone's thrilled to have you back. You're all that they're talking about."

"How flattering," Byleth says flatly.

Claude turns the bowl of chicken soup. Glossy porcelain this time, potentially coated. "Hilda's even dispatched the news to Garreg Mach," he says.

"There's people left at Garreg Mach?"

"There might be some stragglers." He uncaps a bottle of clear ointment in his top drawer and swipes a thumbful over the rim of the bowl, then waits. "You never know."

"One can hope," Byleth says distantly. She glances at him; he shuts the drawer just in time. "But I don't see why everyone's making so much fuss."

"Don't sell yourself short, Teach." He smiles disarmingly. "Everyone loved you. Now that you're back, you're a sign of faith. An injection of morale."

His eyes flicker to the bowl of chicken stew. The ointment has faded, uncolored. Not poisoned.

Byleth turns back to the sunset. Claude quietly reopens his top drawer.

"But not for you," Byleth says.

Claude withdraws a small jar of white powder from the drawer. To an outside eye, the granules are just the right size for sugar. "I'm not the one who matters. The people are. And the people are encouraged by your presence."

He spoons about a thumbnail's amount into the goblet of water, stirring to dissolve.

"If there was one person I wanted to encourage—" Byleth cuts off suddenly. "Are you putting sugar in your water?"

Claude pauses. She's turned from the window, fixing him with that piercing stare again.

He grins, stirring his spoon in the liquid. "Sweets for the sweet. That's what I like to say."

He taps his spoon against the rim of his goblet and sets it down, waiting.

The granules are, of course, not sugar. They're powdered starflowers from the Ohgma Mountains, which react with wolfsbane and hemlock by turning blue.

But Byleth doesn't need to know that.

When the goblet remains clear after thirty seconds, Claude takes a sip. The aftertaste is slightly bitter, but he prefers bitter water to death by organ paralysis.

"You know," Byleth says, "if you were worried about me poisoning you, you could just ask me to take a bite."

Claude chokes on the bitter water. He wipes at his mouth, glancing up at her.

Byleth's mouth is a little crooked, but her gaze is stoic. She turns back to the window.

"Powdered Leila's Conch from the eastern beaches," she guesses.

Claude shakily takes another sip. "Interesting guess."

Byleth shakes her head. "My father had a number of encounters with informants in the taverns," she says. "Most of those encounters are... tense. He always had three tests—powdered Leila's Conch for the beverages, silverware coated in devilsbane ointment for belladonna, and ground lakeroot flakes for arsenic."

Claude places the goblet back on his desk.

"You didn't have to tell me that," he says quietly. It feels like a precious piece of information.

Byleth lowers her head. He can't see her face from this angle.

"I wanted to," she says.

Claude is quiet for a moment. He leans back in his chair, idly tracing a circle in the desk with his forefinger.

Finally, he makes his decision.

"You're nearly correct, with one exception," Claude says. "Leila's Conch is old news. Two years ago, a discovery found that powdered starflowers from the Ohgma Mountains have a faster reaction time."

Byleth's head turns, and her eyes graze him. He raises his personal silverware set.

"But your other two counts are right. These are coated with devilsbane ointment—"

He reaches into his top drawer and withdraws a small bottle filled with muted orange flakes.

"—and these are lakeroot flakes."

Byleth's gaze is level on him. His gut is churning with apprehension.

He's extended a small opening, a tiny vulnerability, the most meager of compromises.

In response, she strides over and plops herself in the chair across his desk. She grabs the spoon from his tray—not his personal set—and pushes it into his hand with an expectant look.

Claude blinks.

"I'll be your taste tester," Byleth says calmly. She nods at the tray. "Go ahead."

Claude clutches onto the spoon, bewildered. "What?"

Byleth is unfazed. "You select the portion of the food," she says. "You select which one, from where, and how much. This is to assuage your suspicions, not mine."

For a moment, Claude can only stare at her, stunned. This was the _last_ development he ever expected to happen. Byleth always had a way of overturning all of his expectations and leaving him flailing without a prepared response.

"Why, uh, don't you just let me run the tests?" he says, silently cursing his minute stammer.

Byleth's eyes are unmoving, mesmerizing. "Because I'll never poison you, and I'm willing to stake my life on that."

Those words shake him. He tries not to show it as he digs the spoon into the multigrain mixture of wild rice and millet. He pauses midway, the guilt darkening inside.

How had his view of Byleth deteriorated so drastically? How had he changed so much? Once upon a time, he would have trusted her without question. She certainly earned it, constantly risking her life to save all of her students.

 _But that's only if her story is true,_ whispers the little voice of Lysithea in the back of his head. _If it isn't, then the narrative would be quite different, wouldn't it?_

It would. It would be a narrative in which Byleth turned against them and melted into the shadows for five years. It would be a narrative in which the ingenious Edelgard sent an undercover agent to utilize Lord Riegan's greatest weakness against him. It would be a narrative in which he would die, and in which the Alliance would falter and crumble.

So Claude sets his jaw, raises the spoon, and slips it into Byleth's mouth.

"How is it?" he says hesitantly.

She chews thoughtfully for a moment. "Not poisoned."

His lips twitch upward. "I mean... the taste, Teach."

She swallows, then shrugs. "Like wild rice."

He laughs at that, surprisingly loud and unusually genuine. "What a shocker."

As he reaches to collect some of the chicken stew in his spoon, Byleth suddenly speaks. "You don't have to treat this like a leisurely outing, Claude. We both know what it is."

His hands freeze.

That's right—maybe in other circumstances, they'd share this easy dialogue outside of a restaurant or inside of a tavern, commiserating on life's difficulties and easing each other's burdens, or gods help him, on a _date._ Maybe in other circumstances, he would be holding this spoon to a Byleth with a pure, sparkling smile, eyes dancing as she opened plush lips in a little _ahh—_

"Claude?"

He clears his throat, flushing a little. Caught daydreaming like a _schoolboy._ The shame.

"If not a leisurely outing, what is this?" he says lightly, holding the spoon toward her mouth.

"A test." She obediently closes her lips around the spoon and swallows the soup.

"A taste test?"

Her eyes flicker up at him, then back to the tray. "Sure."

Her tongue darts out to wet her lips, licking away a stray drop of soup. Claude's eyes linger. Her mouth is soft and rosy, only an arm's length away.

"Next," Byleth says.

Claude swallows. His throat suddenly feels dry.

"Right," he says.

 _Get a grip, Khalid,_ he grouses. _You're not a kid anymore. Stop acting like one._

Some choice chopped fruits are the next victims. He spears a grape and a square of melon, holding it toward her mouth.

Gods. Now that he's aware of the situation, he can't concentrate.

Byleth's gaze fixes on his fingers. Maybe she can detect the minute tremble, because she glances up at him with a slight frown.

"Is everything okay?" she says.

He can't hold her gaze. He glances away, weak. "Just dandy, Teach."

"Look me in the eye and say that again."

"It's not important."

"Claude. Look at me."

He does. It's a mistake.

Her eyes have always been beautiful—first an eastern sea-blue, then mirror-green—but what strikes him this time is the softness of her gaze. She looks at him gently, slowly, and something about it draws a flutter from his stomach and a trill from his veins.

Gods help him. She's always been his vice, and sometimes, he swears that she knows it.

"Don't feel guilty," Byleth says, lulling and calm. "I'm not offended. If this puts your mind at ease, then that's what matters."

He chuckles weakly, fork still raised. "Thank you, but that's not exactly the problem. Right now, at least."

Her brow furrows. "Then what is?"

"Well, that one, you see, is a bit difficult to explain."

"Try me."

He scans her face. She's tense, like she's bracing herself for the worst.

He lets himself be honest for one moment.

"You're very beautiful," he says quietly, holding her gaze. "Sometimes it complicates things."

He hears her breath catch, sees the spark of surprise in that mirror-green. A very light flush tints her pale cheeks. If he's honest, it swells his ego.

Awareness. She's keenly aware of him. She didn't used to be.

He holds the fork closer. She blinks, then opens her mouth, eyes looking anywhere but him.

And just then—

—the door suddenly bursts open, screaming against the hinges as it slams into the wall.

Nines stumbles inside in a rattle of armor, out of breath.

"My lord!" he exclaims in a rush. "Urgent news from the monastery! Father Seteth received your missive, and the Knights of Seiros have retaken the grounds! They're waiting to reunite with you and the professor, my l—"

Nines stops short.

He sees Claude sitting across from Byleth, tray in hand.

He sees Claude extending a forkful of food towards Byleth.

He sees Byleth with her mouth slightly open, waiting.

Nines flushes crimson to the tips of his ears and snaps his feet together. "D-d-date," he stammers. "Y-you're h-having a d-date w-with—s-s-sorry, my lord!"

He slams the door shut and bolts away, metal rattling against the floor with every hurried step.

"Wait, Nines!" Claude leaps up from his chair—and promptly bangs his knee into the desk. He swears under his breath, clutching his leg. "Nines! It's not—get back here! _Nines!_ "


	4. Chapter 4

Claude spends the better part of a week chasing Nines down and pulling up his very eloquent, very prepared half-hour essay on the benefits of employing a taste tester, the dangers of assuming relationship status on witnessing a single event, and the lack of correlation between an advisor's attractiveness and her bond with a Grand Duke.

Nines only grins.

 _Don't worry, my lord, your secret is safe with me!_ he assures Claude with the utmost enthusiasm, miming a stamp. _This guard's lips are sealed._

Claude tries to protest—in vain—that the scene was _not_ what Nines was thinking, that he and the professor were _not_ romantically affiliated, and that there had been _no_ decorum other than that which was strictly pragmatic and professional.

 _But of course, my lord,_ Nines says with the world's most unsubtle wink. _There's absolutely nothing going on between you and the professor! Nothing at all._

It's a lost cause. Claude resigns himself to this single humiliation for the rest of his life, and instead, he sets his mind on more important things.

Like getting to Garreg Mach and reuniting with the ragtag Knights of Seiros.

.

.

.

"Greetings, professor! Nothing to report."

"Thank you, Nines. Have a good—"

"Are you off to see Lord Riegan, professor? You didn't hear this from me... but I'm sure he'd love to take you out on a proper date!"

"What."

"For eateries, this guard fully endorses Heraldry's Pies on the southwest corner of Derdriu! Great place. Great pies. Get the snowberry one with the Noa-whipped cream! Goddess, I could eat wagonfuls of that!"

"Nines—"

"And once you've had your fill, the arboretum is just a block away! There's a beautiful trail through lush flowers and singing birds that's sure to steal your breath away. I'd love to take a lady there myself, but, well, you know how it is. War's a time that's very busy, very expensive, and not very romantic."

"Look, Nines—"

"Of course, not to say that you and Lord Riegan can't be together. On the contrary! You two need to make up for lost time. And, sniff... make up for all the single, eligible, lonely guards who decide to set their country before their hearts—"

"Sir Alm Soren Hodgins IX."

"Yes, professor?"

"...Please step aside. I need to get into the greenhouse."

"Ah, but of course! No gift as romantic as a fresh bouquet, am I right? I'm sure His Grace will be overcome with emotion when he sees it!"

" _Nines!_ "

.

.

.

Claude no longer has to raise his head when the door to his study clicks open. He recognizes it by now—those soft leather footfalls, perfectly balanced, dangerously quiet, only audible because the bearer wants them to be.

"Nines," says Byleth Eisner as she pulls into the room, giant map in tow, "thinks that we're courting."

Claude straightens from his desk and clears off a stack of books, kneading at his brows. "Yeah. I tried to explain. Just let him have his fun."

He stops short, then looks up. His eyes flit across her face, and an odd emotion overtakes him.

"Unless it bothers you," he adds. "I can at least get him to shut up."

Byleth slides the tip of her tongue between her teeth. "It's not a big deal."

His mouth pulls up crookedly. "Don't mind people dragging you down? Gossiping that you're only around to be some kind of... liaison for the Grand Duke?"

"You mean a sexual partner?" she says bluntly, and he almost chokes on his own spit. She amends it quickly. "Sorry. Not a partner. Partner implies long-term interest. A sexual fling—"

 _That was not the problem, that was not why he choked._ Claude hastily clears his throat and waves a hand.

"Nothing of the sort," he says smoothly. "It's just, you know how people like to talk."

Byleth shrugs the giant map off on his desk and plops down in his chair, completely unbothered. "Nines promised he wouldn't tell anyone."

Sadly, among the already few skills that Nines had mastered, keeping secrets was not one of them—but wait, why is Byleth sitting there as if she owns the place?

"My friend, that's my chair," Claude says.

She lifts a brow. "It's a chair."

"That belongs to me."

"It belongs to whoever is working at the desk," she says, "and that person is currently me, pathfinding the fastest way to Garreg Mach without running it down the Bridge of Myrddin."

Gods, he loves her.

Wait. Focus.

"The Bridge of Myrddin is southbound towards the Empire," Claude says slowly, drawing up next to her to peer at the map. He taps on the fresh parchment. "We don't need to cross it. We can just cut west through Gloucester territory."

Byleth braces her hands on the table, spreading her fingers over Garreg Mach. "Gloucester is an Imperial sympathizer, so their territory isn't safe for us. But their greatest concern is Imperial control over the Bridge of Myrddin, so by capturing that bridge, we can win them over."

She snaps her fingers briskly.

"Unify the Alliance once and for all, and make it to Garreg Mach in a timely manner," she says. "Two birds, one stone."

She's already thinking five steps ahead, as always.

Claude feels a strange fire light up in his chest; it's been _years_ since he's had competition in the strategy department.

He leans over the map, brows knitting together. "In order to reach the Bridge of Myrddin, we still need to pass through Gloucester territory. They'd have to put up a fight, or risk losing face and incurring the ire of the Empire."

She fires back, lightning-quick.

"Then cause a diversion on the northern border so we can slip through."

He matches her.

"Via Daphnel and Riegan? We'd either have to split our forces, where we already don't have enough—"

"Or cause a ruckus?"

"Yes. But if we cause a ruckus while taking our strongest forces, Daphnel and Riegan will be largely helpless and undefended. They could be raided, or even conquered."

Claude's thinking hard now. Hard enough for an idea to bite him, bitter and brilliant.

"No, I don't know if this is possible," he muses slowly. "Not right now, not with the current resources we have."

Not without Judith, or even Nader, but he isn't ready to tell her about that.

Byleth turns to watch him, a knowing glint in her eye. She can read when he has schemes in reserve.

"But?" she prompts.

Claude pauses before giving voice to his thoughts.

He doesn't like this plan. He doesn't like how naturally it comes to him, how effortless it is to backstab and betray.

He doesn't like how brutal he's become.

"If our priority is to join up with Seteth," Claude manages to say, "then have _the Knights of Seiros_ cause the diversion. They bring Gloucester forces west towards Garreg Mach. While Gloucester is trapped in the Oghma Mountains fighting the Knights, we fly in from the other side and... pincer Gloucester."

It would be a completely unexpected flank.

It would be a one-sided bloodbath, decimating the forces of a faction that could be his greatest ally.

It would also be the fastest way to reclaim the monastery, the central point and key outpost in all of Fódlan.

Byleth studies his face for a long moment, her clear eyes unfathomable.

"I hope you know," she says mildly, "that we'd be consigning Gloucester to doom."

He bites his tongue. "I know."

"Even if we rout their forces with minimal injuries, we'd be putting our presence on blast with such a bold move. Everyone would know of Gloucester's failure. The Empire would see them as a weak link—"

"I know, Teach."

"—and as they do with all weak links, they will march across the bridge and conquer Gloucester for themselves." Her eyes are piercing through him. "They'll lop off the head of the current leader, and set an Imperial regent in his place."

Claude can taste blood in his mouth.

"Lorenz will be fatherless," Byleth says softly.

He knows.

He's always known.

But even in the past, he's gone through with it—because it was the only way, the only path.

Claude turns to face Byleth head-on.

"Tell me there's another way," he says bitterly. "Because right now, all I can think of is flanking Gloucester and claiming Garreg Mach, waiting until the Empire conquers them, and then—during the unrest and volatility of newly instated Imperial occupation—returning to conquer Gloucester while they're still weak. Tell me not to think like that."

Alarm flashes over Byleth's eyes, but she doesn't look away.

Claude braces his jaw. "I hate that I think that way. You were always the miracle-worker, my friend. No matter the numbers, no matter the odds, you always made it work. Tell me there is another path."

"My father used to tell me that the way to a castle always has three openings," Byleth says quietly. "The entrance, the sewers, and the servant's back door. In other words: the fastest route, the safest route, and the kindest route. You've identified the safest route in that it's thorough and risk-free. There's no shame in that."

Cloud's mouth twists ruefully. "Not what most people say about a man called the Coin, I imagine."

Byleth stares at him wordlessly for a long moment. He waits for her to speak, but she only continues to watch him with those bright silver-green eyes.

"Teach?" he prompts uncertainly.

She quickly turns away, shaking her head. Looking almost—rattled.

"It's nothing," she says briskly. "Safest route, cutting through Gloucester and pincering their forces, would take about one month. But there's two methods left: the fastest route and the kindest route. Waiting for the Knights to start a diversion isn't very fast, after all."

Claude frowns lightly. "Then the fastest route..."

"Allows us to immediately cut through Gloucester without planning out a diversion with the church," says Byleth.

"Which is?"

Byleth's gaze flickers away. Her jaw tightens, grim-faced.

"Assassination," she says. "Depose the current head and instate Lorenz as his successor. Lorenz would let us through."

Claude feels the cold settle in his gut—not because of the suggestion, but because he's shocked to hear it from _Byleth,_ of all people. Maybe she's changed. Or maybe—maybe now that they're peers and not students under her care, she doesn't feel the need to uphold a facade. Maybe she's revealing who she's always been: an unflinching mercenary with a decade of experience.

Or maybe he's just reading too much into it.

"That'd involve," he says slowly, "killing Lorenz's father. With our own hands."

Byleth shrugged, but she was grimacing. "I never said it was the ideal solution. Just the fastest one."

Vaguely, it strikes Claude as odd that they're chatting about assassinating the father of a friend as if they're discussing the weather. They should be reeling in horror, shouldn't they? Or scolding each other?

He casts the thought away. It won't help their current predicament.

"And the kindest route?" he says hopefully.

Byleth gives him a flat look, as if it's painfully obvious. Claude feels like he's in the classroom again, called on right as he's sneaking crumbs to the cat under his desk. "I thought you would have already considered it."

He doesn't like the sound of that. "Do me a favor and enlighten me," he says.

Byleth doesn't move. "Political marriage."

Claude stares at her in silence for a solid minute, gobsmacked. His brain pathetically freezes just at _hearing_ the fateful word.

Byleth doesn't seem to notice, and plows on. "A marriage with Gloucester's heir is an effective, straightforward way to form a alliance. We'd receive a good number of benefits, not least of which is safe passage through the Gloucester domain."

She glances at him, tilting her head.

"Is there anyone in your immediate circle that Lorenz has displayed interest in?" she says.

Claude feels the heat pounding in his ears. He can _not_ believe that he is discussing _Lorenz's love life._ "As if I'd know!"

She raises a brow at his intense reaction. "Why, is it you?"

Gods! " _No._ "

Byleth nods thoughtfully, her gaze falling out the window. "Then maybe it should be me," she muses, "if he's not opposed."

Claude's mind blanks.

Surely he hadn't heard that right.

Surely she hadn't just—

"What?" he says dumbly.

Byleth blinks and looks at him. There isn't a single trace of a smile on her face.

"The descendant of the Goddess, lone bearer of the Sword of the Creator, newly returned from the dead. If we sell it that way, I'd be a powerful piece for a marriage alliance." She starts to pace, nodding to herself, and Claude can't believe she's talking about this so _casually,_ as if commenting on today's meal—"Marry Lorenz, and we'll have safe passage through Gloucester— _and_ completely unify the Alliance—"

"Let's—wait—hold on, Teach." It's rare for Claude to fumble, to feel left behind. "What the _hell_ are you talking about?"

"We're talking about my marriage," Byleth says, matter-of-fact.

And gods help him. Just hearing that kicks him in the gut.

He's a fool.

"Why are you suddenly jumping to get married?" Claude says tightly. "There's way too many problems with that plan. Lorenz might not agree. The wedding would take too long. And it's—I mean, the union, it's supposed to be—you shouldn't have to get married just because it's politically convenient."

"Why not?" Byleth says flatly. Her brows are bearing down, and for some reason, she seems _irritated._ "It's not the fastest way. It's not the safest way. But it _is_ kind, Claude, and if you want to seize central control and unify the Alliance without killing anyone—"

"I wouldn't ask that of you!"

"Oh, really?" she says chillingly. "It's not that you don't trust me not to kill Lorenz? Not to seize control of Gloucester and turn it against you? Not to welcome Imperial forces across Myrddin and march onto Alliance territory?"

The air drops in the room, cold and still.

Claude is struck silent.

Byleth thought—

—that he was suspicious of her, too suspicious to forfeit access to any of his beloved deer.

She couldn't have been more wrong.

That thought hadn't even crossed his mind. He was too busy panicking on the idea of Byleth getting married, too busy getting _jealous_ and _upset_ like a child and not the levelheaded leader that the Alliance needs him to be.

 _I failed,_ he realizes, and it sinks like a stone in his gut. Failures are rare nowadays. He doesn't enjoy the feeling.

"My friend," he says calmly, "that's not what I meant."

That cold glitter is still in her eyes. She doesn't believe him. She has no reason to.

She turns to the table and starts to furl up the map. "It's fine," she says shortly. "I was asking for it. Make your decision, and I'll follow it—"

"Byleth."

Claude immediately reaches out and lies his palm flat over hers, staying her hand. He can feel the warmth of her skin through his glove. It's gentle and solid, and he realizes—her hands have gotten smaller. His hand easily dwarfs hers now.

He feels a minute tremble in her fingers at the contact. She keeps her eyes fixed on the map.

"Look at me," he murmurs. He keeps it warm and rumbling. Friendly, perhaps, or coaxing.

Byleth visibly flinches at his voice and wrenches away her hand. Claude grimaces. Maybe it sounded like a threat to her.

"Marianne, bless her heart, offered a political marriage once," he says slowly. "She told me, 'Anyone will do. Anyone that can strengthen us and protect us.' Kingdom, Empire, even within the Alliance—it didn't matter."

He turns to Byleth full-on. His chest nearly brushes her shoulder. She glances at him, almost cautious.

"I've asked my deer for so much," he says, and a thread of emotion breaks his voice—a vulnerability that Byleth can exploit. "I told them to sacrifice their bodies—ignore their health, risk their lives, throw themselves into combat. I told them to sacrifice their minds—research endlessly, study techniques, strike down friends. The one thing I won't ask of them is to sacrifice their hearts. The war's already taken too much of us. We need something left."

Byleth's gaze shudders, and he knows he's struck a cord. A woman who grew up as a child mercenary had to know exactly what he meant.

He hones in. Leans forward just slightly, braces an arm on the table, hovers just an inch away. He doesn't think he's imagining the tension that sizzles at their closeness—nearly there, barely not.

"You said once," he murmurs, "that your father wanted you to marry for love. After giving everything else up, don't you think you deserve that right?"

Byleth's gaze flickers down to his mouth an inch away, then shoots back up, almost guilty.

He doesn't think he's imagining that, either.

"Claude," she says calmly, "if you could unify the country and bring peace by marrying Edelgard, would you?"

Claude almost laughs, bewildered. "I doubt Her Imperial Majesty would be interested. Compromises aren't her strong suit."

"But would you?"

He pauses. He has to think on that fairly, entertain the idea.

He has no interest in Edelgard, and they're both too strong-willed for their own good. But if he could stop this war in a heartbeat, if he could prevent every future death of his capable generals and innocent civilians, if he could stop hearing of child soldiers and highway banditry and people eating each other to outlast sieges—would he marry her?

And while he's thinking, Byleth speaks.

"The thing about leaders, Claude," she says, soft, but with that ungiving thread of belief, "is that we can't give until we're comfortable. We give until the problem is fixed, whatever it takes. Or it'll take someone we love instead."

She finishes rolling up the map and hoists it under her arm.

"You should have married Hilda to acquire Holst's military power early on," she says, still in that soft voice. "And you should have had Marianne marry Lorenz. Love tends to be a privilege for those who are still alive."

She pushes to the door, her lithe fingers wrapping around the brass handle when—

—Claude's voice stops her in her tracks.

"You know, there's a fourth way into a castle," he says breezily.

Byleth turns to regard him, silent.

Claude's mouth spreads into a disarming smile.

"The thief's window: the coward's way," he says.

And he strides to her, every step bridging the gap, drawing closer. He reaches out to unfurl the map just enough to thumb the eastern range. He feels the brush of his fingers against hers. Ignores it, for now.

"We pass through Daphnel and follow the mountain range that borders the Kingdom," he says clearly. "Cut down our crew to a lighter, more mobile size, banking on flying mounts—something that can get through the steep hike." He draws his finger to the centerpiece, Garreg Mach. "Lightweight means less fighting power, but we avoid conflict by toeing the borders."

He looks at her and cocks a brow. A challenge, maybe. Or a dare.

And he can see Byleth rise to meet him—that spark in her eyes, that pull to her lips.

"The thief's window requires one to travel light, I see," she says.

"A sacrifice of belongings, versus a sacrifice of human lives," Claude says smoothly. "I know which one I prefer."

And to his shock, Byleth's face _melts_ into a smile, gentle and solid and radiant as the full moon. Her eyes glimmer at him like dew-kissed grass.

"Well done," she says warmly. The sound makes his fingers tingle. "It's a good solution. Shall we prepare to leave at first light?"

Claude's tongue is half-tied. He works past it by clearing his threat. "Yes—yes. First light."

"I'll tell the troops to prepare," Byleth says. She refurls the map with a crisp nod and slips out of his study.

It's only when the door clicks shut behind her that Claude awakens, surfacing like an intoxicated man from a deep slumber. The entire time, he'd been so caught up in the _thrill_ of planning out strategies with his Teach again, that he'd forgotten.

He wasn't worrying about her potentially nudging him towards a disastrous route.

He wasn't worrying about her divulging his plans to Imperial forces and ambushing them en route.

He wasn't worrying about anything at all, really.

And when it comes down to it, that's the dangerous thing about Byleth Eisner; always was, always will be.

She has a way of making him trust her without even realizing it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _stares at a map of fódlan_ what. what is the sense of scale. how long does it take to march where. why can i hit a paralogue in brigid, fraldarius, and fódlan's throat, all in the span of a single day??!
> 
> well bogus geography aside i hope ya'll enjoyed this chapter! there's nothing as romantic as war strategy, amirite
> 
> also i'm on [twitter](https://twitter.com/lunachaili)!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aw heck i'm so bad at responding to comments;; thanks for the champs who take the time to write such kind words anyway, I swear i'll get better at it HAHA

The skies are frosty and biting above the eastern range, icy powder blazing over Claude’s nose and cheeks like white fire. Ordinarily, he might be flinching, unused to the bitter cold after the humid warmth of Derdriu. This time, however, he has more important things on his mind.

Like the woman right in front of him.

Byleth Eisner is riding double in his saddle, her frame braced by his arms on either side. The Alliance only had access to so many flying mounts, after all; the beasts were ravenous and demanding, and wartime was already pinching their resources. With their forces cut down to a skeleton crew for the journey to Garreg Mach, every mount had to bear two riders.

Hilda, bless _and_ curse her heart, wasted no time volunteering Claude for the task of carting around their beloved ex-teacher.

 _Claude should take you, professor,_ she vouched with a knowing glint in her eye. _He’s one of the strongest fliers, and since he’s ranged, we’ll have our primary leadership at a safe distance in case of an ambush._

She’s gotten _disturbingly_ good at bullshitting over the past five years. Even Claude can almost convince himself that there’s no ulterior motives as he grips the reins tighter, his hands lying near Byleth’s hips. He wonders if she can hear his heart pounding through his coat, or feel the thrum of heat in his veins. Having her flush against him, her form nestling perfectly in his arms, is doing nothing for his concentration.

Byleth, on the other hand, seems completely unbothered by their proximity. She’s casually leaning against his chest— _not helping, Teach_ —while her eyes scan the mountain range for any sign of movement.

He’s probably just another convenient chair while the tactician makes her plans.

 _End me,_ he thinks miserably as Byleth shifts her head, snuggling into the crook of his neck. He flushes to his ears, pulse hammering in the thick of his skull.

Lysithea is going to _kill_ him once they land.

Then Byleth says something—but her voice is lost in the rushing winter wind.

“What?” Claude says loudly, dipping closer.

Byleth turns her head until his nose bumps her cheek and _shit, her face is right there._ “I said,” she calls clearly, “I can see Hilda returning from reconnaissance. We should drop off at that forest point, wait for intel.”

Claude works to speak past his static brain. Thankfully, with the demands of sheer practice, he succeeds.

He turns behind him and raises a hand.

“Dismount!” he commands.

The mass of wyverns and pegasus pivot down to the snow-topped trees. Claude feels the icy wind cutting into his cheeks, but its sting is largely muted by the unfamiliar feeling of Byleth pressing herself into his chest. She’s unused to heights, it seems, and even less used to descending from them.

Just for her, Claude takes a smoother landing than he normally would: he cuts a shallow angle and skims ground level for a whole minute before he touches the snowbanks. Byleth doesn’t miss it; she shoots him a grateful look over her shoulder as they dismount, and it stirs up a warm feeling.

She trusts him.

He quickly shuts that thought down before it complicates things; instead, he turns to order Nines to set up their tactics tent. They’re going to need a place to plan.

As the troops set out to make temporary camp, Claude turns to the mountaintops. Out in the distance and through the peaks, the dotted figure of a wyvern rider grows larger until it takes complete shape: Hilda, canted forward in full speed, soaring to meet them as fast as possible.

Claude frowns. Hilda in full speed is never a good sign.

“Is she being chased?” comes Byleth’s voice from next to him, and she draws up to his side. Her hand rests on the pommel of her sword: relaxed, yet poised.

Claude glances at her. “I can’t exactly see much from this distance,” he says wryly.

“But you know Hilda,” Byleth says without pause. “You know how she flies and how she fights. Tell me: is she being chased?”

The observation is keen and cutting, enough to impress Claude—and get a rise out of him, the way she always did whenever she challenged him to be better. He turns back to the mountains, his eyes breaking down the loping silhouette in the distance.

Straight lines. No evasive maneuvers. Full ride, never pausing to return fire with a short axe.

Claude shakes his head. “No. She’s not being chased. At ease.”

Byleth nods crisply, and her hand slides from the pommel. She turns and disappears into their makeshift campsite, setting her hands to assist Nines with the tactics tent.

Claude blinks after her, bewildered. What had been the point of that exchange? Surely Byleth could’ve drawn the same conclusions as him. Surely she was already aware that their forces weren’t in any danger of an ambush.

Had it been a test? For him?

He doesn’t have time to ponder it: Hilda is already banking down at the forest’s edge, leaping off the back of her wyvern with stylish ease and a flair of pink. The hard look on her face would be uncharacteristic to Byleth, but Claude has seen it often over the past five years—more often than he would like.

“Status?” he asks simply.

“Not good,” Hilda says. She reaches out to run a comforting hand along the flank of her wyvern, whose plates shift with every tired huff.

Claude grimaces. “How many?”

Hilda raises a few fingers, a worried dip in her brow. “Three whole camps. I think they’re starting to group together.”

He expected to run into some obstacles, but three camps of thieves hadn’t been on his wishlist.

“They’re not grouping together,” Claude says. “They formed a temporary pact for a big job.”

Hilda blinks. “How would you know?”

Claude’s mouth is a hard line. “Been there before,” he says. “Come. It’s time for a secret scheme.”

.

.

.

For three years now, the Grand Duke of the Alliance has retained an inner council, and it consists of something like this:

Claude von Riegan, the leader and visioneer himself, trader of tricks and supplier of schemes.

Hilda Valentine Goneril, his right hand and (no matter how she would contest this) powerhouse warrior, gifted with the heart of the people and the seeing eyes of a child.

Lysithea von Ordelia, his left hand and legendary wizard: studious, diligent, and the savior of his paperwork system and Leicester’s nationwide magical theory.

And shockingly enough—

Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, refined nobleman and administrator, and 90% of the time, a dissenter to the Grand Duke’s brilliant, irrefutable ideas.

When Lysithea had suggested to bring Lorenz to the inner council some odd years ago, Claude had dismissed her with a laugh. Lorenz! Perish the thought! That man would do nothing but oppose his every idea, drag down his every move, and attack his every accomplishment. The last thing Claude wanted to do was bog down his own team with the weight of bureaucracy.

But Lysithea had _strongly recommended_ —which is to say insisted—and Hilda was no less enthusiastic, because Lorenz was a _dear._

So Claude gave Lorenz Hellman Gloucester one chance. Lorenz, tragically enough, delivered beyond all expectations. That one chance led to two, which led to three, which eventually led to a permanent position in the inner circle, along with a healthy dose of grudging respect.

The man simply sees things in ways that Claude does not— _which is exactly my point, Claude, you need a devil’s advocate and not a mindless choir to whom to preach,_ Lysithea told him with a smug smile. Lorenz is able to bring balance to the otherwise chaotic energy of Leicester’s executive circle, contributing a critical eye, a discerning taste, and yes, sometimes status consciousness and elitism. Much as Claude would like to ignore the noble class, he can’t deny that their power and influence has its uses, and it’s worth jumping through some hoops to keep his options open.

As Claude slides into the tactics tent, he gives a nod of appreciation to each of these dedicated countrymen: the powerhouse warrior, the legendary wizard, the refined nobleman, and finally—

—the wildcard mercenary.

Byleth follows in his steps like a second shadow, lurking at the edges of his vision. She didn’t ask for permission to enter the tactics tent, but why would she? To her, it must be like second nature.

 _Dismiss her,_ whispers that quiet voice deep in Claude’s mind. _You can’t risk it. You can’t risk her knowing your every move. Dismiss—_

“Professor!” Hilda gushes, beaming as she rushes to Byleth’s side. “So good to have you join us. It really does feel just like old times.”

“That it does,” Lorenz agrees. “A welcome sight to have such an experienced tactician return to our side. You have my thanks, professor.”

Claude holds back a grimace. Well, so much for that idea. Byleth Eisner is here to stay.

No matter; more urgent business calls.

Surrounded by his counsel, Claude rolls down a map on the central table. “Hil, can we get a rundown?” he asks, stepping back.

Hilda nods, deftly sliding several wooden markers into place. “I saw three banners, each a different design,” she says. “That means at least three companies of thieves. Why would they all band together out in the boonies, though? What’s even out here?”

“I wouldn’t think that this area is the target for their job,” Lysithea says. “It’s more likely that they’re just meeting up. This is a safe rendezvous point between territories, after all. Did you see the makeup of their forces?”

“Not in detail,” Hilda says uncertainly. “There’s a palisade on the whole eastern side, along with two watchtowers. I couldn’t get too close without being shot.”

Claude frowns. A palisade? Watchtowers? Why does it sound like a permanent camp?

Had the thieves been waiting? For _them?_

Well; thoughts later, tactics now. Every minute is gold. Claude leans over the map, placing several more wooden markers.

“Alright, folks, let’s split at the palisade and send the wyvern core to flank south,” he says. “We’ll drop off in the forests, keep low; can’t get crippled by their volleys. Send Raph’s brawlers to bait them up north, and we’ll pincer them from both sides. In the meantime, our magic core—”

“Claude,” Hilda prompts gently, “don’t you think you’re forgetting something?”

Claude stops short, gaze snapping upward. He clocks the tent for what he could’ve possibly missed: weapons, quills and parchment, a pouch of backup chest keys—

—and Byleth, standing silently by the table, watching him intently.

Immediately, his mouth runs dry and his hands turn clammy. He straightens, fingers stuttering over the map like a child caught stealing.

That’s right. Byleth used to be the one in charge of tactics. She set their strategy, their approach, their pace. He always looked to her to make the calls, and she always delivered. He’d grown so used to taking command of the army that he’d forgotten.

Claude clears his throat and steps back. “Sorry, Teach,” he says easily. “Old habits.”

Byleth silently looks at the map. Her gaze is stoic and unaffected—impossible to read.

“It's fine,” she eventually says. She gestures to the table. “As you were.”

He watches her cautiously. A part of him wants to trust her, to publicly relinquish command and put the army in her hands. The other part knows that, with such power, she could eliminate the Alliance forces in one fell swoop.

Unbidden, his eyes wander to Lysithea. She’s watching him solemnly, her gaze soft and knowing.

She tilts her chin down, just an inch. _I'll spot you._

He smiles ruefully. _Thanks, Ly._

And he turns to Byleth, spreading his hands. A sign of surrender, maybe. Or at least appeasement.

“Lead the charge, my friend,” he says, grin widening. “We’re at your disposal.”

He steps away from the map. Cedes ground.

After all, if any of Byleth’s moves come across as suspicious, Lysithea will be the first to tell him.

Byleth stands by the map, her thumb smoothing down the dog-eared corner. For one moment, she almost seems... lost. Her breathing is thin and ragged, her eyes drifting off to some point beyond the map.

Then the moment is over and she snaps into focus. Her shoulders straighten, her jaw tightens, and she’s once again the competent, confident professor of the past.

“In this climate, the thieves will be setting up camp in the caves,” Byleth says sharply, drawing crisp lines with her finger. “If they’ve set up a palisade on the open side, they’re near-unbreachable. Caves are low and constrained, so we can’t rely on our flying mounts, and our brawlers and mages will be heavily impeded by snow. We’ll be peppered by arrows on our way up the ridge, and they’ll have time to rig the camp with traps.”

She taps her finger on the map’s caves, inked in whispery black lines.

“But if they have no reason to leave the safety of their caves,” she says, “let’s give them one.”

And she reaches to the array of supplies under the table, withdrawing a flask of alcohol and a worn rag.

Claude stares.

Lysithea blinks.

Lorenz frowns.

Hilda tilts her head.

“Ordinarily,” Byleth says mildly, uncorking the flask, "we would rely on explosive or poison barrels to smoke them out. Or we’d send in the mage core to rain fire. But we have to get in too close for that; the equipment is too cumbersome, and our mages’ range is too short."

She drenches the rag in alcohol and secures it to the flask, then re-corks it.

“This,” Byleth says simply, holding up the tied flask, “is a lightweight version of the explosive barrels.”

She tosses it carelessly at Claude, who deftly catches it—albeit with a hint of panic.

“This?” he says doubtfully, eyeing the flask. “How is it supposed to explode?”

“I saw this during the,” Byleth says, then pauses and clears her throat. “While I was journeying through Faerghus. The unrest with... in Fhirdiad.”

There’s a shadow to her gaze, and he wonders what she’s seen. The fallout from Prince Dimitri’s treason had thrown Faerghus into chaos, pitting the nation in a bloody civil war.

He can’t imagine that her northern tour had been pleasant.

“The Fhirdiad dealers,” says Byleth, snapping back to the present, “called these ‘cocktails.’ You light the rag before you toss the flask. When it breaks, the flammable contents spill all over the area and ignite. Alcohol or oil makes them intensely destructive.”

“Like a movable pyre,” Claude muses. “Interesting.”

She nods briskly.

An inventive, out-of-the-box solution, something that no one else would have thought of. _Just like old times,_ Claude realizes with a strange prick of nostalgia.

Then Lorenz Hellman Gloucester decides to do his job and professionally poop on the party.

“Naturally, professor, this is a very inventive idea,” he says diplomatically, smoothing his hair out of his face. “I certainly appreciate the thought that went into crafting this strategy. Nonetheless, I have a minor concern.”

He prods the edge of his boot just outside the tent flap at the white powder covering the earth.

“With snow so profuse,” he says, “would not the fires be easily smothered? I doubt it would pose enough threat to drive the thieves out of hiding.”

Over time, Claude has grown to appreciate Lorenz’s ability to see things from a different perspective, to catch errors that he never would’ve seen himself, to diplomatically play a devil’s advocate.

That doesn’t stop the knee-jerk reaction to oppose him.

“If you think about it,” Claude says easily, stepping forward to tap the map, “we don’t need the threat to be big enough to scare them out of hiding.”

His mouth spreads in a crooked grin.

“We just need to make them angry enough for burning all their supplies.”

Byleth’s lips quirk upward.

Even Lorenz nods thoughtfully. “A fair assessment. Then, the execution?”

“We equip a lean strike force of our fastest, stealthiest troops, infiltrate camp, and lob these into the caves,” Byleth says smartly. She turns to Hilda. “You said Ignatz cross-certified for the assassins guild?”

“He did indeed,” Hilda says. “Sweet little Iggy.”

“Then he’s coming with me,” Byleth says. “Stealth and speed are the name of the game here. We’re going fast and quiet.”

Claude leans forward.

It’s time for a little test.

“Let me come with you,” he says evenly. “You know my aim.”

He doesn’t have to look at Lysithea to know her eyes are flashing in alarm.

Byleth will have immediate access to the Grand Duke. Alone. Good as unarmed.

A prime opportunity for assassination.

Byleth’s eyes land on him, clear and calculating. Sometimes, he swears that she can see right through him.

Then she shakes her head.

“We can’t possibly risk sending you on this mission,” she says evenly. “You’re not just the leader of the Alliance, Claude; you’re the last remaining symbol of defiance to the Empire. Besides”—and her eyes flicker to his sun-bright garb—“you’re not exactly stealthy.”

Claude feels the relief like a wave. He masks it with a loose grin. “You wound me, Teach.”

“You’ll live,” Byleth says dryly, and she throws on her heavy cloak, fastening a loose knot across her chest. “Get Ignatz. We set out in ten minutes.”

Hilda, Lorenz, and Lysithea obediently duck out of the tent to relay the news. Claude lingers behind, one hand resting by the dagger on his hip.

“Be careful,” he says.

Byleth stops at that, one hand fixed over the clasps of her snowboots.

“Of what?” she says mildly.

A pointed question. He’s silent for a moment, selecting his words carefully.

“You’d know better than me,” he settles on.

Byleth clips down the straps, then straightens. “Would I?” she says.

She strides out of the tent. Claude stares at the map, his fingers curling in.

.

.

.

The battle goes smoothly—almost _too_ smoothly, almost _suspiciously_ smoothly. No casualties, minimal injuries, and in record time. Byleth isn’t even fazed by an ambush from the rear, positioning their vulnerable mages at the center of their forces well ahead of time. It’s almost as if—

_—as if she knew beforehand, as if she negotiated this encounter with the enemy forces._

It wouldn’t have been the first time someone close to Claude had contracted thieves for their own purposes, after all.

But now isn’t the time to dwell on such thoughts. Now is the time to celebrate with profuse amounts of meat and ale in the mess tent, rejoicing in the fact that no condolence letters will have to be sent to any homes tonight.

As Lorenz belts out the third verse of _The High Council Opera, Act I_ and Raphael retains his champion’s belt of eating contests, Claude ducks out of the mess tent for a breath of fresh air. The rowdy merriment may be a welcome sight after weeks of wearisome travel, but even he can hit his limit.

He finds Byleth sitting at the root of a winter pine, her gaze transfixed by the burning silver light of the full moon. Like an owl, she is still and silent, yet completely alert. Claude catches how her fingers twitch to the hilt of her sword merely at the padded sound of his boots on the snow-touched grass.

“Not feeling the festivities?” he says with slight humor. “Pop in now, and you just might catch Act II of _The High Council Opera._ ”

He expects some witty response; perhaps something like, _Then I’ll be sure to keep my distance._ Instead, he’s met with silence.

Claude tries again.

“No casualties,” he says easily, glancing at her. “You haven't lost your touch.”

This time, a response. “So much has changed,” Byleth says tiredly.

Claude frowns, leaning in. Now that he's looking closer, Byleth seems _exhausted._ Her face is haggard and drawn, neck slumped forward and arms dangling loosely at her sides, like she can’t bring herself to raise them.

Claude feels a surge of panic and he kneels in front of her, taking her hands. Even through his gloves, he can feel that they’re cold and clammy.

“Hey,” he says urgently. “What's wrong?”

Byleth pulls her hands away. The motion is uncontrolled, almost drunken.

She won’t look him in the eye.

“I didn’t expect common thieves to evolve like that.” Byleth laughs sharply. “Deadly gambits. Ambush reinforcements. And their weapon supply—”

“All the novices died out during the war,” Claude says quietly. “The only ones left are consummate professionals.”

Byleth says nothing. He tries to soften his tone, ease her turmoil.

“At least you saw everything coming,” he says, sitting next to her. His shoulder barely brushes hers. “You know how much I’d give to hunt down thieving cartels without casualties?”

She laughs bleakly. “Saw everything coming, huh?”

“Even with tactics changing over the past five years, you’re still one of the best and brightest. You were way ahead of your time, Teach.”

“Time,” Byleth echoes. She pulls herself to her feet, but even that motion seems taxing for her. “Thank you, Claude, but I’d best retire for the evening.”

“Hold up.” Claude gently grabs her arm. “Let me run a checkup, at least.”

She tugs her arm out of his grip—the second time she’s pulled away from him. Something uncomfortable curdles in the pit of his stomach, and he shifts away to give her some space.

“There’s no need,” Byleth says smoothly. “I’ll see Marianne.”

Another deflection, another dismissal, another refusal. Claude tries to shrug it off with an easy, meaningless smile. It’s distinctly difficult.

“Marianne is very good at treating every standard injury.” He reaches for a small pouch tucked securely in the folds of his sash. “She isn’t, however, a specialist of poisons. Which you may or may not have as another person in your army, just, hypothetically speaking.”

Byleth doesn’t protest as he roots around the pouch, drawing out several tiny vials of herbs and powders and odd liquids. She even crouches next to him, looking mildly intrigued.

Claude finds his first weapon of choice: a small leaf stashed in a protective envelope. He hands the leaf carefully to Byleth.

“Lick the end of this, would you?” he says.

To her credit, Byleth swipes it cleanly against her tongue without complaint. She returns it to Claude, who delicately grips it by the stem and swirls it in a vial of clear liquid.

“Acidity test,” he explains at her questioning look. “Firefume mushrooms can manipulate the acidic balance of your saliva and make it burn through your esopha—but that’s a bit gruesome, you don’t need to know that.” He checks the leaf, then nods. “Doesn’t seem to be a problem. Good.”

Byleth watches him as he disposes of the leaf. Some of her exhaustion seems to have dissipated in favor of curiosity, which he’ll always welcome.

Next, Claude instructs her to prick her finger with a sterile needle, then press it on a night-blue herb.

“I’m testing for any malignant coagulant,” he says. “Flowers like Hades’s blush slowly congeal your blood until—also gruesome. Never mind.” The drops of blood retain their color, neither lightening nor darkening. He breathes out. “Good, nothing. Those are nasty to treat.”

He uncaps a vial of white powder and taps a small pinch into Byleth’s palm.

“Last test, I promise,” he says. He mixes in a murky poultice, then guides her to smear a strip of the concoction over her wrist. “Extract of grimsblade or nighthood passes through the bloodstream, targeting your organs. It can lead to internal paralysis or organ failure.”

Byleth, unfazed, waits in silence. Claude studiously watches the strip of pale skin peeking from her vambrace.

The concoction fades away, invisible to the human eye.

“Well, lucky you,” says Claude, grinning ruefully. “Looks like it’s just exhaustion.”

And he puts it all away—his vials and his jars, his poultices and his herbs, all tucked orderly and securely back into his pouch.

“Guess the doctor’s orders are just a good night’s rest,” he continues smoothly. “Ideally, we’ll have better accommodations once we hit the monastery, but until then—”

“Claude.”

Claude stops short, looking up to meet Byleth’s gaze. Her eyes are stunning in the moonlight, quicksilver woven through flecks of green.

“Why are you putting in so much effort?” she says quietly.

Claude folds the pouch away in his sash, breathing out a sigh. “You took care of your troops, Teach,” he says. “Now so do I.”

She’s watching his face intensely—no, _desperately._ “Even though you think I could betray you?”

“Well, you know what they say,” Claude muses. “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

The moment those words are out of his mouth, he wishes he could take them back. The hurt that blazes across Byleth’s—tired, pained, _sad_ —eyes is unmistakable. She’s usually so stoic and hardy, but in her moment of weakness, he just twisted the knife deeper.

“Byleth,” he says quickly, but the damage is done.

She stands abruptly, brushing off her coat. “It’s fine, Claude,” she says mildly. “Rest well.”

She strides to the thick line of tents, but Claude refuses to end it like this. He walks in pace with her, his syllables clear and firm.

“You’re not an enemy, Teach.” She won't look at him, so he turns around, backstepping in front of her. “I’m just overly cautious. I’m sorry.”

Byleth slides past him without a glance. “I said that it’s fine.”

“It’s not fine.” Claude reaches out and grips her shoulder. She expertly weaves away from his hold; it’s like trying to grasp water. “Byleth, please.”

She turns on him then, her cloak fluttering behind her shoulders like butterfly wings, and her eyes flaring white.

“You, of all people,” she says lowly, her voice shaking and heavy, “should know how cruel false hope can be. Don’t give me any.”

She steps forward; he instinctively steps back, his breath caught in his lungs.

“If you see me as an enemy, I understand,” she rasps. “If you doubt my intentions, I understand. But then, don’t—don’t look at me with those eyes. Don’t make your touch so tender. I saw you die twice today, Claude. I don’t need to lose you again.”

She leaves him breathless with her intensity, feet affixed to the ground like a statue. She turns and disappears into her tent without a backward glance.

Claude’s fingers curl loosely at his sides.

Die—emotionally? Metaphorically? Did she look at how he fought, and realize that that the Claude she knew was dead? Had she witnessed the death of his innocence?

To him, Byleth is like desert quicksand: every time he searches for answers, he only finds himself deeper in questions.

Claude tilts his jaw up and exhales, letting the heat of his breath mist over his nose. The moon pierces him, bright and brilliant. The night is still young. He could return to the mess tent for festivities; he _should_ return to the mess tent for festivities. He wholly _intends_ to return.

Instead, his hands reach out, grip the flap of Byleth’s tent, and pull it aside.

Claude ducks in to a thick darkness, broken only by the flickering thimble of a single candle. He squints into the shapelessness, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He doesn’t realize his mistake until his shifting vision catches the barest flicker of motion in the dark.

There’s a whistle of web-thin steel, and before he knows it, cold metal is pressed to his throat.

 _Moron,_ he curses. So this is how the Grand Duke bows out: a naive, idyllic fool who let his guard down too early.

“Claude,” comes Byleth’s voice, soft and melodic as a dying ember. The blade disappears from his throat and slips into the cobalt sheath dangling from her waist.

Claude stands there for a moment, shaken. By his own mortality, maybe; he’d just seen the delicate balance of the Alliance, the entire outcome of the war, crumble before his eyes. Or maybe shaken by his own foolishness, because despite the risks, he’s choosing to remain here and speak with her.

“I didn’t expect you to follow me inside,” Byleth says, probably by way of apology.

“Well,” Claude manages. His tongue darts out to wet his lips. “Surprise.”

Maybe he’s mistaken, but he thinks he catches a slight smile in the dim firelight.

“What do you want?” Byleth says, turning to divest her couters and vambraces. She sets the plates of armor at the foot of her cot, where they gleam like a rank of miniature troops.

Claude keeps his gaze even and his tone level. “I didn’t want to end things there,” he says. “You said your piece, Teach. Now let me say mine.”

Byleth’s fingers flutter, hesitating. An opening. Claude draws himself up and gathers the words.

“However you did it—whoever you are—thank you,” he says emphatically. “Thank you for bringing everyone home. The people under my care, they’re more to me than troops, than numbers. They’re my family, and you protected them. So thank you.” He breathes out. “That’s all I had to say.”

Byleth is quiet for a moment, her face unreadable.

Then her hand raises, trembling, and presses two fingers at the emblem of his cloak—where his Officers Academy pin would have been, once upon a time.

“You’re more than welcome,” she says quietly.

He waits with bated breath, letting her hand track up and grip his shoulder. The move of an ally. The move of a friend.

“I’ll do everything in my power,” she says, “to bring all of you home. Always.”

That hits Claude hard, and he forces himself to swallow past the knot in his throat.

“Thank you, my friend,” he murmurs. A concession. Maybe a confession.

Byleth only leans into him, one hand reaching up to tangle in his cloak. Her ear rests just above his chest and listens to his thrumming pulse. He feels her breath shudder once, twice. Instinctively, he presses his cheek to her brow, exhaling softly.

When Byleth steps away, Claude knows that it’s not just the night that has changed.

So has he.


End file.
